The older you get the more reflective you become (although strangely enough it’s not the same for mirrors, because they tend to get those little black blemishes around the edges...) and looking back over my long career of supporting Wednesday, I would say that somehting happened ten years ago that might not happen again for quite a while.
Ten years ago this month, Sheffield Wednesday won a major trophy for the fist time in over fifty years. Our only major trophy in over sixty-five years...that’s birth to retirement – one trophy. Still, if we always look on the bright side of life (as we sang to those Manchester United fans ten years ago) it’s better than being a Sheffield United fan – they haven’t won anything since George Fomby were a lad (Mother!).
At the time of Wembley 1991, I wasn’t living in Sheffield so I sent for a ticket via a postal application (pointng out that I was a Wednesday fan – despite living in Lancashire). The ticket finally arrived and my family and I planned a short holiday around the event. A return to education had provided me with lots of time, a very good grant, and a wife now free to work full-time and the blessed family credit for six months at least. The redundancy money from my old job had been used to pay off outstanding debts, but more importantly to purchase a sturdy frame tent for future holidays...which over the coming years might be at a premium. The AA Road Atlas was duly dusted down and consulted to find a suitable holiday destinantion within commuting distance of Wembley
Friday morning we set off across the Pennines with two kids balancing on assorted bedding asking “Are we there yet” every five miles. The trip over the Snake Pass was a memorable one for no other reason than the A57 was steaming in the heat of the sun after a solitary shower. First stop was Hillsborough and the old club shop at the back of the South Stand that always smelt of plastic. The place was heaving with people buying souvenirs for the weekend ahead. I purchased a Wembley 91 scarf (still got it) which was left to stream out of the back window as we headed for the M1.
Our chosen destination was a small town called Manningtree in Essex. The town had a station with a direct line connection to Liverpool Street in London and was situated in Constable country close to Flatford Mill and Dedham vale. We arrived in the evening and pitched our tent (despite the usual arguments), checked out the amenities and basically had a quiet first night. The following day, the Saturday prior to the game, will go down in my life as one of the most bizarre meteorological experiences I have ever witnessed. The day started bright and sunny, with not a cloud in the sky, so we decided to pay a visit to Colchester “England’s oldest recorded town”, famous as a place where Boudicca chopped the whole of a Roman garrisons’ bollocks off.
Now what started as a pleasant sunny jaunt aound Colchester’s shops and lanes suddenly turned quite nasty. A blizzard hot town which resulted in the four of us looking like snowmen...all we were short of was Aled Jones. A quick return to the campsite saw things get worse as we battened down the flaps of our tent. Sitting there shivering for the next two hours was close to unbearable; if Captain Oates had been with us I think he would have left and he may have been “quite some time”. Thanks to me moaning more than most, the night was eventually spent in a B&B in Harwich.
On the Sunday Wendy and the kids set off for a day at Clacton after dropping me at the station. The sun had returned and all looked to be well with the world. Being an exiled Owl (from birth) I have travelled far and wide on my own to watch Wednesday and my experience of Wembley was not diminished by my solitude. Pride in one’s club is something you share with friends or with strangers and I have never felt removed from Wednesday by my lack of “Sheffield-ness”. OK, I don’t join in with the Yorkshire chant, but then again I don’t join in with a lot of the chants. Supporting Wednesday has given me a great deal of grief over the years but all that is forgotten when you finally achieve success.
The match has been described many times before in fanzines, so I won’t over elaborate. John Sheridan shooting and a noise rather like another Wednesday fanzine being heard before the ball rolled across the back of the net. When Wednesday score a goal (especially at Wembley), it doesn’t matter who is standing next to you. Be it the ugliest skinhead since Buster Bloodvessel or Lord Roy Hattersley, you jump up and down and give each other an exultant hug.
I have been moved many times at Wednesday games (usually by the police), but like many around me I found it hard to hold back the tears and when Big Nige held up the trophy, I thought my heart would burst.
For Man United’s fans it was just another trip to Wembley, for us Wednesdayites it was the most wonderful moment in our footballing lives. Some might think us sad (athough Unitedites still envy us that moment ...through gritted teeth) but what must it be like to become almost resigned to success? Do Manchester Untied supporters become blase over winning trophies that aren’t the European Cup? I hope for their sake that they don’t, but the lack of atmosphere at Old Trafford I have witnessed suggests that maybe they do. Having experienced a lifetime of following Wednesday, the idea of supporting another club is anaethema to me. You couldn’t put your heart and soul into (to coin a phrase) “someone else’s baby”.
The journey back from Wembley, by now accompanied by a discarded pink teddy bear, was made all the more pleasant by two United fans shaking my hand at Liverpool Street station and telling me that the best team won. Looking back over the years, I wonder if I could ever have been so detached from the emotions of losing a cup final to ever say something like that? But at that moment, I was enjoying the unusual experience of “basking in the glow of success” for the first (and only?) time in my life.
With Wendy and the kids waiting for me on Manningtree station, I ran towards their outstretched arms like I was returning from the war (with a pink teddy bear? Obviously not a very gruelling war).
A wonderful, wonderful weekend. The only sad thing about it being the poor old tent, which, standing there limp and sagging, rather reminded me of Alex Ferguson’s face.